Duiker frowned. ‘I’d heard that he was working the soldiers to exhaustion, that he didn’t even need to enforce the curfew since everyone was so eager for sleep and the barracks were silent as tombs by the eighth bell. If not practising wheels and turtles and shield-walls, then what?’

‘The ruined monastery on the hill south of the city – you know the one? Just foundations left except for the central temple, but the chest-high walls cover the entire hilltop like a small city. The sappers have built them up, roofed some of them over. It was a maze of alleys and cul-de-sacs to begin with, but Coltaine had the sappers turn it into a nightmare. I’d wager there’s soldiers still wandering around lost in there. The Wickan has us there every afternoon, mock battles, street control, assaulting buildings, break-out tactics, retrieving wounded. Coltaine’s warriors act the part of rioting mobs and looters, and I tell you, historian, they were born to it.’ He paused for breath. ‘Every day... we bake under the sun on that bone-bleached hill, broken down to squad level, each squad assigned impossible objectives.’ He grimaced. ‘Under this new Fist, each soldier of the Seventh has died a dozen times or more in mock battle. Corporal List has been killed in every exercise so far, the poor boy’s Hood-addled, and through it all those Wickan savages hoot and howl.’

Duiker said nothing as they continued on their way to Imperial Square. When they entered the Malazan Quarter, the historian finally spoke. ‘Something of a rivalry, then, between the Seventh and the Wickan Regiment.’

‘Oh, aye, that tactic’s obvious enough, but it’s going too far, I think. We’ll see in a few days’ time, when we start getting Wickan Lancer support. There’ll be double-crossing, mark my words.’

They strode into the square. ‘And you?’ Duiker asked. ‘What task has Coltaine given the Seventh’s last cadre mage?’

‘Folly. I conjure illusions all day until my skull’s ready to burst.’

‘Illusions? In the mock battles?’

‘Aye, and it’s what makes the objectives so impossible. Believe me, there’s been more than one curse thrown my way, Duiker. More than one.’

‘What do you conjure, dragons?’

‘I wish. I create Malazan refugees, historian. By the hundred. A thousand weighted scarecrows for the soldiers to drag around aren’t sufficient for Coltaine, the ones he has me create flee the wrong way, or refuse to leave their homes, or drag furniture and other possessions. Coltaine’s orders – my refugees create chaos, and so far cost more lives than any other element in the exercises. I’m not a popular man, Duiker.’

‘What of Sormo E’nath?’ the historian asked, his mouth suddenly dry.

‘The warlock? Nowhere to be seen.’